


Long Way Down

by drekadair



Series: Tales from the Folly [6]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 23:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13512120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drekadair/pseuds/drekadair
Summary: When Peter is injured, Nightingale must make a difficult choice.





	Long Way Down

“Drive your son  
like a railroad spike  
into the water:  
let it pull him under.  
Don't you lift him,  
let him drown alive…” 

\- “Bottom of the River” by Delta Rae

 

It was raining. Nightingale followed the sound of the gunshot over the muddy grass, downslope toward the river. He stumbled once over an uneven place in the turf. There were no streetlights and the park was dark in a way the city was rarely dark, but he didn’t dare make a werelight. The shooter might still be near, watching. He hadn’t expected a gun.

“Over here!” Beverly shouted. Her voice was rough with fear. “Nightingale!”

It was Beverly’s tip that had brought them here, to the island of green formed by Richmond Park and Wimbledon Common, where her river ran between Wimbledon and Chiswick. She called Peter a little after eleven that night.

“There’s something really strange in the park,” she’d said. “You’d better get your ass down here. And bring the Nightingale.”

Nightingale risked a werelight. The soft glow cast his shadow back toward the road. Ahead, it gleamed off the river, and beyond the river he could make out the shadows of the trees on the far side. Beverly crouched at the riverbank, and at her feet was Peter.

He ran toward them. Peter lay on his back in the grass, staring up into the dark sky. He blinked once or twice as the rain fell onto his face, but his eyes were unfocused and glassy. Beverly pressed her hands against his side. Blood welled up between her fingers. Peter’s breath was slow and wet, but Beverly’s hands were too low for the shot to have pierced his lungs.

“There’s another one,” she said. “There.” She pointed with her chin.

Nightingale found it, a little below the bottom of Peter’s sternum. He stripped off his coat, laid it over the small hole, and put his weight on it. His hands were shaking. Peter didn’t react. There was more blood at the corners of his mouth.

Nightingale hadn’t complained about their late-night excursion, even though he’d already been in his pajamas when Peter knocked on his door. Anything that made a river goddess nervous wasn’t something he wanted Peter to tackle on his own. He thought the three of them would be safe enough together. He hadn’t expected a gun.

One-handed, Nightingale got his phone out of his pocket and pressed the power button. While he waited for it to turn on, Beverly said, “I don’t think he has time for that.”

“He has to,” Nightingale said. He knew she was right. He had seen many men shot. Modern medicine was good, but not good enough to save Peter. “He’s strong. He’ll hold on.”

“I can save him,” Beverly said. “The ambulance will never get here in time, but I’m right here.”

Nightingale stared at her. His werelight cast her face into shadowed relief. “How?”

“My river,” she said. “My river is right here. The water can heal him.”

He wanted to believe her. He wanted her to be right. “That doesn’t work for humans, only for genii locorum.”

“It works for me in my river, or my mum’s,” Beverly said. Her hands were wet up to her wrists. The blood looked nearly black in the cool light. “If he was mine, it would be his river, too.”

Like Isis and Oxley. Isis had been human once. Nightingale wasn’t sure what she was now. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You cannot simply drag Peter into your river. He has to give his consent. Those are the rules.” Nightingale glanced down at Peter’s face. His eyes were drooping, closing.

Nightingale’s phone finished turning on. It lay in his hand, but he made no move to dial.

“You’re his master,” Beverly said. “You can give consent on his behalf. That would work.”

Rain ran down Nightingale’s face, down his collar. Peter’s shirt was soaked. He didn’t know what to do. He had made hard decisions before, decisions that sent men to their deaths. He had never made a decision like this, a decision that might let a man live but at a terrible cost. Peter was human now, but he might not be after Beverly was done with him. 

Would Peter thank him for making this choice for him? He could only know if Peter lived. If Peter lived to hate him, at least he would live.

“Do it,” he said. “I give you permission.”

Beverly lifted Peter like he weighed nothing and darted toward the river. There was a splash, and then nothing but the sound of the rain.

It rained all through the night. Nightingale stayed on riverbank until the sky turned gray with dawn. When his suit jacket became soaked and he began to shiver, he pulled his coat back on. The whole left side was saturated with blood where it had pressed against Peter’s wound. At first it was warm, then sticky. At sunrise he climbed into the Jag and drove back to the Folly.

He should have reported it, but he didn’t. Stephanopolous called once, trying to find Peter. Nightingale offered an easy lie. If it worked, Peter’s temporary disappearance would be forgotten. He didn’t allow himself to think about what he would do if it didn’t work.

For three days his calls to Peter and Beverly’s phones went unanswered. Mama Thames and Lady Ty stonewalled him. He paced the Folly and slept badly, when he slept at all. Molly watched him with anxious eyes.

Three days later his phone rang. It was Beverly’s number, but Peter’s voice.

“It’s me,” he said. “Can you come pick me up?”


End file.
